


Sins of the Father

by the_random_writer



Series: Separated Twins [18]
Category: Bourne (Movies), RED (Movies), The Bourne Supremacy (2004)
Genre: Babies, Brothers, Crossover, Deception, Espionage, Fatherhood, Gen, Hospitals, Lies, Marriage of Convenience, Plans For The Future, Secret Identity, Secrets, Separated Twins, Spies & Secret Agents, Twins, Undercover Missions, Unplanned Pregnancy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-26
Updated: 2018-09-26
Packaged: 2019-07-17 16:14:39
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,050
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16099211
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/the_random_writer/pseuds/the_random_writer
Summary: A crossover where William Cooper from 'RED' and Kirill from 'The Bourne Supremacy' are identical twins.Born in Berlin to an American mother and a Russian father, the twins were separated at the age of ten by their parents' divorce. William went to the United States with their mother, while Kirill went to the Soviet Union with their father.Alexander Orlov wants to be a husband and father, but not for the reasons you think. A prequel story about William and Kirill's parents.Takes place in July 1971 and May 1972.





	Sins of the Father

**Ernst's Bar, Kreuzberg, West Berlin, 28th July, 1971**

Alexander glanced at his watch—twenty to six, the timepiece read.

Which meant Sergei Viacheslavich was now almost half an hour late.

Not that this came as much of a shock. He'd worked with Sergei for almost eight years, and couldn't remember the older man ever _once_ arriving on time.

But Alexander didn't mind. The bar was quiet, the beer was good and he'd brought a book to give him something to do while he waited—a just-published conspiracy thriller called _The Day of the Jackal_ , by a new British author named Frederick Forsyth. He was quite enjoying it, even if some of the descriptions of French intelligence operations seemed ever-so-slightly overdone.

He couldn't wait for Sergei all night, of course—he'd told Rebecca he would be home before eight—but the journey back to their tiny apartment would take him less than twenty minutes, so he didn't need to leave anytime soon.

A warm gust of air blew through the building, which told him someone had just come in the main door. He leaned over to peek round the wall, and finally, after twenty-eight minutes, there was the man himself.

Alexander made no attempt to catch Sergei's attention, not out of rudeness so much as habit and training. In their line of work, attracting attention—even each other's—was the last thing either of them wanted to do. The bar was in the south end of the city, in one of Berlin's poorer, immigrant-heavy quarters. It was doubtful anyone from the German intelligence service knew who the two of them were, much less where or why they were meeting, but one could never take too much care.

He took a sip of his Pilsner and waited, knowing Sergei would check the bar's corners one at a time, until he found the man he'd come here to meet.

Five minutes later, his colleague waddled up to the table. His face was flushed from the late summer heat, and he was puffing slightly, no doubt from climbing the small set of stairs that led to the bar's mezzanine level, where Alexander had chosen to hide. The mezzanine wasn't as easy on Sergei's arthritic knees as the main floor, but it was empty apart from them, and not visible from either the bar or the door, which made it the perfect spot for a clandestine meeting.

Sergei extended a fat-fingered hand. "Alexander, my boy, how are you?" he boomed, as always, speaking in flawless Berlinisch. In public, their diminutive names were never used—he himself was always Alexander and never Sanya, Sasha or Shura—and not a single word of Russian was ever spoken. And Sergei wasn't even Sergei—when he addressed the other agent, Alexander called him Otto instead. A solid, reliable German name for someone who was pretending to be a solid, reliable German man.

Alexander stood up, grasped and firmly shook the hand. "I can't complain," he said. "I know you are not very fond of the season, but I have always loved Berlin in summer myself. The heat is glorious." He gestured at the building's left wall, in the direction of the Viktoriapark, a mile or so from where they were sitting. "I walked to the top of the Kreuzberg Hill before I came here to meet you today. The view from the foot of the waterfall up to the monument at the top is stunning. It made me wish I had brought my camera with me."

He'd already made a mental note to come back for another visit, and to bring Rebecca with him. Her artist's eye would love the waterfall's movement and colours.

Sergei grunted as he pulled out a chair. "Summer makes me tired and sweaty," he grumbled. "I would much rather have four seasons of glorious autumn or winter instead. At least when I am too cold, I can put on another shirt or sweater. What am I supposed to do when I become too hot? Peel the flesh away from my bones?"

"It will not always be summer, Otto," Alexander pointed out. "You of all people should remember that no matter how much we try to delay them, the snows of winter will always come."

Sergei smiled as he sat, recognizing his own advice, advice he'd given to a younger and greener Alexander almost a decade ago. And it was good advice—a reminder that living and working here in the West allowed them to lead a very comfortable life compared to what they would have at home, but that their comfort could disappear at a moment's notice, due to nothing more than a stroke of a KGB-wielded pen.

Alexander waggled his glass of beer at his friend. "Can I buy you a drink?"

"Thank you, Alexander, but as much as I would like to say 'yes', I am afraid I must decline." Sergei patted his stomach, once flat and trim, now slightly rotund. "My doctor tells me I have an ulcer. He wants me to lose some weight, and to cut down on alcohol and cigarettes as much as I can."

"That is their answer to every health problem," Alexander complained. "I swear, I could go to a doctor with my leg hanging off, and he would simply tell me to exercise more and eat some greens."

Sergei let out a booming laugh, causing Alexander to grin. "This is very true, yes. As a man much smarter than me once said, 'there are only two types of doctors, those who practice with their brains, and those who practice with their mouths.'" His laughter faded, and his features took on a more sombre expression. "But we did not come here today to talk about our medical issues."

The greetings, however brief and pleasant, were over—it was time to get down to the serious business instead.

"No, we did not."

Sergei removed his hat and laid it on the chair beside him. He pulled a white handkerchief out of his pocket and wiped it over his sweat-beaded brow. "How did you fare on the translation job for the professor?" he asked.

"It actually went very well. The piece was quite long, but in the end, not as esoteric as I expected. The Professor was extremely pleased with my work."

Sergei's voice dropped to a barely-audible murmur. "And his files?"

"I found them," Alexander replied. "The security measures in his office were nowhere near as good as we had been led to believe. I bypassed them in under ten minutes."

"Excellent. I assume you took photos of what you found?"

Alexander tapped the packet of cigarettes on the table. He didn't smoke, but that wasn't a problem, since the packet had no cigarettes in it—he'd removed the contents to make enough room for two rolls of Minox camera film. "Everything you need is in here."

Sergei deftly palmed the packet and slipped it into his jacket pocket. "The Rezident will be _very_ pleased."

"Based on what I saw in some of those files, he is going to be more than pleased."

"You read them?"

"Only a random handful of pages. Just enough to be sure I was in the right place. I didn't have time to look at them all."

"I assume you were careful not to leave any tracks."

"Of _course_ I was, Otto. You know me. Careful is almost my middle name."

"Forgive me, my boy. I did not mean to call your abilities into doubt. But this is a highly sensitive job, and we need you to keep the Professor's trust. If he develops even the _slightest_ suspicion of who and what you really are, he will not hesitate to call the police. If that happens, we will have to extract you from your assignment, bring in another agent and start our work all over again."

"Don't worry, Otto," Alexander soothed. "He told me he might have some more work for me next month. I doubt very much he would ask me to translate for him again if he thought I had broken into his files."

Sergei's eyebrows shot up. "He wants you to translate another piece?"

"A polemical essay this time." Alexander leaned forward over the table. "From German into English and Russian, but also to Polish," he said.

"Polish?"

"Interesting, yes? If he is asking for Polish, it means he and his cohorts are branching out. Expanding their network's horizons beyond East Germany and Soviet Russia."

"And he told you the piece would be ready next month?"

"That's right."

Sergei leaned forward as well, until their noses were less than a foot apart. "I don't need to tell you how important this is," he warned. No, he didn't, but he was obviously going to, just to be sure. "We need to know who Lange is working with in the Bloc, who the other members of his little group are. Stay with him until he has written the essay, translate it for him, then find out as much as you can." He tapped on the table. "Offer to take him out for a drink when you are done. You said he already seems to trust you, but you need to make him like you as well. Turn on that infamous Orlov charm, persuade him to open up to you. He thinks you are a political dissident who fled to the West to avoid being arrested and executed, so he _should_ already be sympathetic to you. With a few drinks in him, you never know what he might be willing to share."

"I can do that."

"I know you can." The smile Sergei flashed him was sly. "You are very good at making people like you, Alexander. Why do you think we gave you this role?"

"If I recall, it was because I was the only person in my class who spoke more than a single language," Alexander drily replied. "And an agent who works as a translator needs to be able to speak more than one language, yes?"

Sergei shrugged. "Of course. Your language abilities were and still are your primary talents. But you have a great deal of personal charm and charisma as well. Don't underestimate how useful your social skills are."

"I never do."

"I will make sure a recommendation goes in your file at the Rezidentura. Good work should always be rewarded in kind."

"Thank you," Alexander said. He paused to consider his professional standing, then asked, "Will you recommend I receive a higher monthly stipend as well?"

Sergei leaned back, instantly putting more distance between them, frowned and gave him a narrow-eyed stare. "That is a very bold request." His tone wasn't cold, but it wasn't exactly sunny, either.

"You said it yourself, I have done some extremely good work, and that good work should always be rewarded."

"Is the recommendation not enough?"

"The recommendation is appreciated, but the recommendation does not pay for the rent or heat on my apartment, or put food and drink on my table. The federal government thinks inflation is going to hit six percent before the end of the year. My monthly stipend does not cover as much as it used to."

Sergei sighed. "No, I suppose it does not." He smiled again, but only slightly. "Let me talk to the Rezident when I give him the film. No promises, but I will try."

"If it helps, tell him my work for the Professor may potentially bring me into contact with another, even more useful target."

"How useful?"

"Perhaps you have heard of Friedrich Weber?"

Sergei's eyes went wide. An understandable reaction, since everyone in the KGB and the Stasi had heard of Friedrich Berthold Eberhard Weber—one of the biggest and most annoying thorns in first Ulbricht's and now Honecker's sides.

"The political writer?" Sergei asked.

Alexander nodded. "The one who wrote the series of articles for _Die Welt_ last year that were extremely critical of the East German regime." And therefore, of the controlling regime in Moscow as well. "The Professor hinted his next article will be a denunciation of The Brezhnev Doctrine."

The Rezident over in Karlshorst believed Weber was involved in or even leading one of the GDR's more troublesome anti-Soviet protest groups. They'd been trying for months to get into his personal papers, so far without much luck. He worked from home, and rarely allowed other people into his house, which had made it difficult for them to gain access by more traditional means, such as with a break and enter, or through workmen and domestic staff.

If Alexander could persuade Friedrich Weber to trust him, and if he could then locate and copy the sought-after files, his future in the KGB and the Party would be fully assured. With that kind of success under his belt, he would be able to keep his post in Berlin for at least another five years. Maybe longer, depending on what the files contained.

Sergei was inclined to agree. "Alexander, my boy, if you can work yourself into Friedrich Weber's good graces, your monthly stipend will be doubled or tripled, not merely raised."

"It's only a potential contact for now," Alexander warned, wary of raising the other man's hopes. He knew what happened to agents who promised the moon and failed to deliver, so usually, it was better to say nothing at all until the business was done. "He is quite reclusive, and known to be extremely suspicious of people, especially when they are from the Bloc, so he may not take to me as easily as the Professor has."

"He is a target to handle with care."

"That is what I thought, yes." But Alexander knew he could do it. "Give me some time, let me work on him slowly, I promise I will deliver Herr Weber's papers to you."

Sergei nodded. "I will say nothing to the Rezident yet. I will wait until you have something more concrete to offer."

"Thank you."

It was a sensible arrangement. The abundance of caution wouldn't just benefit Alexander—it would protect Sergei's position and reputation as well. When agents failed or imploded, their colleagues and handlers rarely survived the ensuing fallout unharmed.

"So, the projects stemming from your translation work seem to be going very well," Sergei said. "What about your other, more personal project? The one concerning the lovely Rebecca? Have you made any progress with her?"

"A decent amount," Alexander grudgingly said. "But not as much as I had hoped."

"It seems she is the only woman in West Berlin who is immune to your charms."

"I said I had made a decent amount of progress, Otto. In case you had forgotten, we _are_ living and sleeping together." One of the more pleasant aspects of the assignment, especially the sleeping part. "It is not as if I have completely failed."

"But you have not persuaded her to marry you yet?"

Alexander shook his head. "I have not even raised the subject of marriage. She is like Weber, too cautious and too easily spooked. She wants us to live together for a while first, see how it all works out. If I propose to her now, I will simply frighten her off. I need more time."

"Alexander, my boy, if it was up to me, I would give you all the time in the world. I may be old and arthritic now, but I remember what it was like to be young." He smiled sadly, reminiscing. "A beautiful woman should _never_ be rushed."

"But it is not up to you."

"Regrettably, it is not. And with this project, it is not even our beloved Rezident who wants the results."

Alexander felt his heartbeat quicken. If it wasn't the Resident overseeing this task, there was only one other explanation. "The Committee?" he said.

Sergei nodded. "Egorov wants some progress by the end of the year. He has implied that if you cannot produce that progress for us, then perhaps you should be removed and replaced by another agent who can."

More of Egorov's idiotic, impetuous bullshit—always wanting results and success, but never willing to give his agents the time or the money to come up with the goods. The man was an ass. Such a shame Andropov had chosen him to run the Committee. His rival, Denikin, would have been a _much_ better boss.

"I am not doing anything wrong, Otto. She has made it very clear that she wants to be with me, but would simply prefer to take her time. Another agent will not be able to do any better." He set his elbows on the table and lowered his head to run his hands through his shoulder-length hair. "You have not even explained to me why she is such an important target," he said. "Yes, she is American, yes, marrying her would give me an even better cover story, _and_ an excuse to move to the States, but why her in particular? Why not any of a dozen other American women?"

Like the girl he'd met on the bus to Steglitz last week—the daughter of an American couple temporarily living in Berlin. Just as beautiful as Rebecca, but _bozhe moi_ , the things she'd been able to do with her mouth…

In a calm voice, Sergei said, "Because none of those dozen other American women are the daughter of Michael Cooper."

Alexander jerked his head up—this was a revelation to him. "What's so special about her father?" he asked. Rebecca had told him about her parents, but only the minimum facts. He knew they were Catholic and extremely strict—one of the reasons Rebecca had chosen to study and work outside the US—and that her father's family were from Ireland, but her mother's were from Berlin.

"Did you know he is an officer in the United States Navy?" Sergei asked.

Alexander nodded. "She mentioned that, yes. And her mother is an artist like her."

"Did you know he has recently been assigned to the Navy Staff in Washington, and that he is currently undergoing review for promotion to Rear Admiral rank?"

Rebecca hadn't mentioned that. "I didn't, no. When Rebecca told me he was in the Navy, I assumed she meant he was serving on a ship."

"He _has_ served on a ship, many of them, and a couple of submarines as well. But his career has moved on to the, how shall I say, more _political_ stage. You understand?"

He understood. "Her father is going to be an important man."

"And important men are excellent sources of information. Especially when they work for the United States Chief of Naval Operations."

"You want me to marry her, and persuade her to move back to the States, so we can be close to her parents."

It was all so painfully obvious, now. Why hadn't he figured it out, that Rebecca herself wasn't Egorov's target, but like him and Sergei, just another means to an end?

"Exactly."

He could feel the anger boiling up, not at being so callously used—that had always been part of the job—but at being so thoroughly kept in the dark. "You should have told me from the beginning," he stiffly said. "You should have given me _all_ of the facts."

"This was need to know, Alexander, and until it became an issue today, you did not need to know."

"Were you ever going to tell me?"

"Once you had persuaded her to marry you, yes." Sergei reached out to lay an appeasing hand on his arm. "You understand now, my boy, why you need to make this work?"

"I understand."

" _Can_ you make it work? Can you summon even more of that infamous Orlov charm? Persuade the lovely Rebecca that you are the only man in the world for her, to marry you and settle down?"

But Alexander was already taking another path. If charm wouldn't work, then something else would. "I have a much better idea."

"What's that?"

"What is the _one_ thing"—he wielded an index finger at Sergei—"perhaps even the _only_ thing, that will always persuade a woman to marry a man?"

Sergei shrugged. "Money?"

"Not money, Otto. Something far more consequential than that."

Sergei caught on to what he meant. "A baby," he said.

"A baby," Alexander repeated. "Rebecca makes a big show of being a hippie, but underneath all the beads, rainbow symbols and flowers, she is a nice, obedient, Catholic girl. If I get her pregnant, there is no _way_ she will not want to get married."

"Are you sure?"

"Absolutely."

"But you are already having sex with her, and she has not become pregnant yet."

"That is because she is using the Pill."

"How would you deal with that?"

"I don't know, but I will find a way." He had some reading and research to do. Perhaps his pharmacist friend at the hospital clinic could help. "The Pill is a drug, and any drug can be damaged or faked."

"Sabotage, then?"

"I think so, yes."

"You have always been just as good at that as you are at charming people, so I will leave it in your capable hands."

"What about the Rezident and the Committee?" Alexander asked. "Will they approve of the actions I plan to take?"

Sergei waved the concern away. "All the Committee want is results. If you give them what they want, which is moving to the United States and personal contact with Michael Cooper, they won't care how you bring it about." He shrugged slightly. "You won't be the first KGB man to father a child as part of a cover story. We have a sleeper agent in London who has managed to father four, if you can believe that."

"That is a lot of children."

"His cover job pays him extremely well, and conditions in England are much easier than in the USSR. There is plenty of everything to go round, so four children are not such a struggle to raise."

"Speaking of salaries, if Rebecca and I have a child, is the Rezident ready to pay me a higher stipend, then?" Alexander asked. "Babies are very expensive, Otto. As I am sure your man in London can tell you."

"I think I could arrange that, yes."

Something else about the Committee's proposal struck him as wrong.

"Has it occurred to the Rezident and the Committee that the United States Navy will almost certainly treat me as a security risk? Potentially to the point where they move Rebecca's father to another, safer assignment? In their shoes, would _you_ allow Michael Cooper to access confidential information about defense and naval intelligence programs if his daughter had returned to the States with an exiled Russian husband in tow?"

Sergei nodded. "It has occurred to them, yes. They know there is a risk of the plan not panning out, but they feel it is a case of nothing ventured, nothing gained."

"And it is not their heads on the block if it all goes wrong. If the Americans find out what I am, it will be me who goes to prison, not them."

"Exactly. But you are the best agent I have _ever_ seen. If you cannot carry out and complete this assignment, then I don't know who can."

"Thank you, Sergei. It is very kind of you to say that."

"I would not say it if I did not mean it."

"I know. But I still appreciate it."

Sergei paused before speaking again. "Alexander, you _do_ realize what taking this course of action with Rebecca will mean? Are you ready for how much your life will change? To become not just a husband, but a father as well?"

Alexander considered the question, and quickly realized that yes, he was.

He'd grown up effectively as an only child—his younger sister had died of polio at the age of two—and his father had drunk himself to death when he was barely in his teens. His mother was probably still alive, but he'd washed his hands of her a long time ago, and hadn't been in contact with her since before he'd 'escaped' to the West. He'd told Rebecca she was dead as well—simpler and safer than admitting the truth.

A family would be a nice thing to have, even if it was a family built on secrets and lies. And he liked the idea of them having a boy—a son to continue the family name, and more importantly, to continue the work he and Sergei had started. Espionage, like parenthood, was always a long-term game.

He could see it all unfolding now, teaching his son to catch a ball, to ride a bike, to shave, to drive, then, if Rebecca allowed it, to hunt, shoot and kill as well.

"Yes, I believe I am."

"Good." Sergei reached for his hat, signalling their meeting was done. "But you won't become a husband and father by sitting here with a beer in your hand." He made a get-out-of-here motion. "Take yourself home, go make love to the delightful Rebecca, get her pregnant and turn her into your wife." He rose from the table, wincing as his arthritic knee twinged. "I will meet you again on the twenty-third of October. If you need to contact me before then, follow the usual exception procedures."

"Where next?" Alexander asked. They never met at the same place twice—another one of their standard precautions.

"Wilmersdorf Cemetery. Ten o'clock at the Kolldehoff grave. Bring some flowers. And don't be late."

"Otto, my friend, given your own timekeeping habits, how would you even know if I was?"

Sergei simply grinned. "I would ask you to give my regards to Rebecca, but then I remember she does not even know I exist, so I will simply say good night and best wishes instead." He held out his hand—Alexander shook it again.

Without another word, the older man turned and shuffled away.

Alexander looked at his watch—five past six, the timepiece now read.

What to do next? He could go home, help Rebecca with the cleaning and laundry, then, if she was in the mood, open some wine and take her to bed.

But there would be plenty of time for cleaning and laundry later. And, if his plan to get her pregnant succeeded, plenty of extra laundry to do as well.

He stood up and collected his glass.

Rebecca could wait a little while yet—time to order another beer.

 

**St. Joseph's Catholic Hospital, Templehof, Berlin, 24th May, 1972**

Footsteps echoed along the wide hall.

The shuffling sound told Alexander who the impending arrival was—Sergei Viacheslavich, come to admire his beautiful sons.

Sure enough, a few seconds later, his KGB colleague arrived at his side. The older man smiled and gave his shoulder a trio of hearty, congratulatory slaps. "Alexander, my boy, as always, you have _more_ than exceeded our expectations," he said. He gestured at the room full of newborns on the other side of the glass, but fixed his eyes on a small pair of babies right at the front, swaddled and sleeping in the same crib. " _Two_ children, instead of one. What a wonderful blessing this is. You must be extremely proud."

Alexander grinned. "They are amazing, yes?"

"I cannot recall when I last saw such beautiful children. They are perfect, in every possible way."

"I still cannot believe they are mine," Alexander murmured, laying a gentle hand on the window. "I cannot believe I have two sons." And sons who were identical twins—rarer and even more special again.

"How is Rebecca?" Sergei asked. "Was the birth very difficult for her?"

"Her labour was almost seventeen hours. The first one arrived with no trouble at all. The little one tried to come out feet first, but the doctor was able to turn him in the womb, so in the end, everything worked out as planned. She is very tired, but that is to be expected." Alexander had an idea. "Would you like to meet her?" he said. "I could introduce you as one of my writer friends."

Sergei shook his head. "As much as I would like to say 'yes', I think that would be a bad idea. Better for both of us and your sons if she continues not to know who I am."

A sound from the nursery drew their attention. The smaller twin was now fussing and squirming, trying to kick his swaddling blanket away. The larger one was still fast asleep, sucking on the end of his thumb, completely oblivious to his observers.

"Have you decided on names?" Sergei asked.

As it happened, he and Rebecca had, but only after a long and slightly heated discussion that had ended with neither of them getting their way. Alexander pointed to the larger baby. "He will be William Alexander." He moved his finger to the left. "And the little one trying to kick his way out of the blanket will be Kirill Alexandrovich."

"Excellent choices," Sergei said. "Especially for the little one. Did you know, Kirill was my grandfather's name?"

"I wanted both of them to have full, Russian names, including the proper patronymic, but Rebecca was quite insistent on naming one of them after her paternal grandfather instead." He shrugged slightly. "She _did_ give birth to them, so I suppose that is fair." And she _had_ added his name in the middle as an _otchestvo_ of sorts.

Sergei patted his shoulder again. "Compromise is the soul of marriage, Alexander. You should know that by now."

"Otto, my friend, you have _no_ idea."

"Will your sons be meeting their mother's parents anytime soon?"

From anyone else, an innocent question, from Sergei, a timely and subtle reminder that a risky and high stakes game was afoot. A game in which his four-hour-old sons were now the newest and most valuable pieces.

"They did not take the news of the pregnancy or our marriage well, especially her father, but Rebecca believes things will improve once they have actually met the twins. She called them this morning to let them know the babies are here. They are obviously delighted, and making plans to visit in a couple of weeks."

"Your first meeting with them."

"Yes."

"Are you nervous?"

Alexander knew better than to lie to Sergei. "Of course I am," he said. "He is a Rear Admiral in the United States Navy, she is a half-Jewish artist who left Berlin with her parents when the Nazis came to power. I am a Russian dissident in exile with no proper home and no proper job. In what _possible_ world are they going to like me?"

"Perhaps the world in which they can see how much you love and care for their daughter? And their brand new baby grandsons as well?"

"I suppose so, yes."

"I have faith in you, Sasha," Sergei solemnly said. " I have given you numerous projects over the years, some trivial, some a matter of life and death, and you have _always_ delivered results. You brought us the Professor's files, and just as you promised, Herr Weber's as well." He waved at the crib. "And now you have provided us with these wonderful boys. Given your track record over the last twelve months, I cannot imagine your introduction to your wife's parents being anything other than a total success."

The door at the other end of the corridor opened.

To their surprise, Rebecca emerged, wearing slippers, a loose dress and a robe, no doubt coming to check on their sons. Fortunately, she was moving slowly, which gave Sergei the time he needed to leave.

"June twenty-fourth, the Brixplatz Park, one o'clock," the older man said.

Alexander simply nodded, Sergei turned and shuffled away.

Rebecca joined him at the window.

She frowned and gestured down the hall in the direction of Sergei's departure. "Who was that?" she asked. She might be tired from almost a day of labour, but even now, nothing escaped her attentive eyes. Not for the first time, Alexander considered what an excellent spy she would make.  

"The father of one of the other women. He came to see his daughter's new baby. He congratulated us on the twins. Said they are perfect, in every possible way."

At least the last part wasn't a lie.

Rebecca smiled, took his hand and snuggled into his shoulder. "They didn't feel perfect when they were coming out," she drily said. "Especially Kirill. Pretty sure the little swine was trying to kick me to death."

As if his tiny, newborn ears were burning, Kirill, who had briefly stilled, started to squirm and kick again.

"That one is going to cause us all kinds of trouble," Alexander declared. "I can feel it in my bones."

"Only if he takes after his father. If he takes after me, he'll do just fine."

A throwaway comment meant as a joke, but sadly, one with far more truth behind it than Rebecca would ever know.

"Are you saying I am trouble?" he mock-complained.

She grinned and stood on her tiptoes to give him a kiss. "You managed to get me pregnant even though I was on the Pill, so yeah, you are. But I love you anyway. Which is probably just as well, all things considered." She pulled away, suddenly shy and unsure. "You _do_ love me as well, don't you? You're not gonna run off with another woman and leave me to raise these guys on my own?"

"Of course I do, and of course I am not." He cradled her face with his hands and looked her straight in the eye. "I am not going anywhere, _kotyonok_. I give you my word." He might spend the occasional day with Aimee or Alix, but she obviously didn't need to know about the women he kept on the side.

Behind the glass, Kirill's fussing erupted into a full-on howl. The noise caused his older brother to wake—William frowned then started wailing as well.

"See what I mean?" Alexander said, gesturing at his younger son. "Trouble with a capital T."

"They're probably hungry. Let me go grab a chair and a pillow, see if I can figure this feeding thing out."

"I would offer to help, but sadly, I lack the proper equipment."

She grinned again and went to the nursery door. As she grabbed the handle, she paused and said, "Speaking of offering to help, I've been thinking some more about what you suggested last week."

"About us moving to the United States?"

"Yeah."

"And?"

"And I've decided you're right. So if everything goes well with my mom and dad when they visit, if we get over all the stupid art school argument stuff, I'm gonna tell them I want to come home." She waved at the twins. "We're gonna need all the help we can get with the boys, so I think I'd like to be close to my mom."

It took him every ounce of willpower he had not to punch his fist in the air—Sergei was going to dance with joy. "I think that makes a lot of sense."

"The boys should be entitled to a US passport through me, but you'll need a spousal visa, so there's probably some paperwork we need to submit. Might take us a while to figure it out, but I think my dad has a friend in the State Department who'll be able to help."

"The sooner we start, the sooner we can pack up and go."

She looked at him askance. "You sure it's what you want to do?"

"Why wouldn't it be?"

"Well, the United States and the Soviet Union aren't exactly the warmest of friends. Could make life a little bit difficult for you."

"Rivka, my love, I survived being tortured for two days by a KGB interrogation unit. I think I can survive a few cold shoulders and frosty glares."

He ushered her into the room. He might not be able to feed the twins, but he could sit with her to watch and help.

"But we can talk about our plans for the future later. Right now, let us go spend some time with our sons."


End file.
